


So This Is Summer

by prouvairy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romantic Fluff, balcony scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairy/pseuds/prouvairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan/Courfeyrac modern AU, entirely romantic fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So This Is Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern AU where Les Amis de l'ABC are all teenagers, in the summer before their final year of high school. They are a fairly casual political activist group, spending more time discussing issues than actually being involved in anything for the time being. This is basically just romantic fluff inspired by the feeling of happiness and freedom in the air that summer brings. The song in the fic is Wine In The Afternoon by Franz Ferdinand.

Courfeyrac had walked down that narrow, twisty street hundreds of times before on his way to and from the Café Musain. It had always been there, and he never paid it close attention; it was just like any other street, albeit a little more extravagant with its medieval-style windows and the creeping ivy that coated the walls. It was never special, until one late evening in early summertime, when the sun was beginning to slide down the sky like a big drop of paint on a canvas, smudging and blurring, burning against the blue. The house at the end of the street had been for sale for several weeks, and he hadn't given it a second thought until something caught his eye as he walked home alone, after reassuring his friends that he would be fine and wanted to walk alone for a change, and making sure someone got Grantaire home safely so he could collapse onto his bed and regret his choices again. Courfeyrac was walking with his hands in his pockets, headphones in his ears, not needing to watch where he was going because he knew the street so well; so well that when he saw something new, something colourful, he stopped walking and gazed up at the house. The sign advertising the house as being for sale was gone, and somebody had definitely moved in there, because there were now curtains visible in windows and a light in one, but that was not what caught his eye. There was a small balcony on the top floor, a balcony that had never seemed particularly impressive, but now it was covered in pots of flowers of all different sizes, colours and varieties. And kneeling amongst the flowers was a boy about his own age. The first thing that Courfeyrac noticed about the boy was that he was beautiful, but he was not beautiful in a way that he was used to. He was not like the boys he knew, nor was he like the girls; they all shone with strong, burning personalities and ambitions, goals and desires, but this boy seemed to shine with a different kind of light, something that was soft and ethereal but had the potential to be fierce, like a tiny burning star in the night sky. He really should have looked quite strange or awkward, dressed as he was in a fuzzy lime green cashmere sweater and pink – yes, pink – skinny jeans, with his longish hair tucked behind his ears and an absent sort of smile playing on his lips, but Courfeyrac found him positively enthralling, and could not seem to look away – until the boy glanced down and saw him standing there. His eyes were wide and blue, and he just stared at Courfeyrac, who just stared back, before realising how completely creepy that was and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.  
He did the only thing that felt right; he smiled and waved at the boy, who blushed in response before smiling back and then disappearing from the balcony and back into the house. He blushed. Courfeyrac stayed there for a moment longer, the image of the boy's blushing, smiling face still strong in his mind, before he continued to walk home, his way lit by the sunset and the stranger's smile.

*

“He's beautiful. I don't know where he came from, probably Heaven or something. I saw him again last night, he was sitting on the balcony reading a poetry book. He likes poetry. Isn't that the loveliest thing?”  
It had been a week since he had first seen the boy on the balcony, and Courfeyrac had found himself thinking about him more and more as each day went by. He began making excuses to walk past the house every day, hoping he would catch a glimpse of him, and finally, he had. He sighed happily.  
“What should I do, 'Ferre?”  
Combeferre, who had listened to Courfeyrac's infatuated speech patiently whilst organizing a pile of books, turned to look at his friend.  
“Aren't you supposed to be the one people come to for this kind of advice?” he asked, sitting on the couch beside Courfeyrac. “Being the charming, flirtatious one and all.”  
“But it's different this time,” Courfeyrac said, frowning and running a hand through his brown curls. “I don't know why, but I don't feel like I could just go up and flirt with him. He's not like everyone else.”  
“You don't even know him,” Combeferre pointed out, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “He could be a lot like everyone else. You shouldn't judge his personality just by how cute you think he is.”  
Courfeyrac smiled dreamily. “He is so very, very cute.”  
Combeferre sighed. “The only thing I suggest you do is talk to him. Surely he leaves the house sometimes. Be there when he does, and introduce yourself.”  
“How am I supposed to know when he's leaving the house? I'm not that much of a stalker.” Courfeyrac thought about this for a moment. “I'm really not. What if he thinks I'm stalking him?”  
“Are you sure you're not?” Combeferre asked with a smile. Courfeyrac hit him playfully.  
“I'm absolutely not stalking him. I'm... admiring him from a distance.”  
“It's like a courtly romance. You say he likes poetry, why don't you try reciting some? Shout up to him, maybe try to re-enact Romeo and Juliet-”  
Courfeyrac burst out laughing and got to his feet. “Now you're just being silly.”  
Combeferre shrugged and did not deny it. “Did I help at all?”  
“Yes,” Courfeyrac replied with a smile. “I'll find a way to talk to him.”

*

It took another week before the perfect opportunity presented itself, but when it did, it couldn't have been any better in his dreams, because it actually was an accident, a chance encounter. Courfeyrac was on his way to the Café Musain, not for a scheduled meeting organized by Enjolras but a casual one with Marius. When he saw the boy walking right toward him, heading in the direction of his house, Courfeyrac decided that Marius could absolutely wait. As soon as the boy realised who he saw, he stopped awkwardly, and Courfeyrac stopped too, and looked at him.  
“Um, excuse me. You just moved here, right?” He asked, trying to keep his voice light, steady and charming.  
“Yes,” replied the boy, in a delicate voice, “Two and a half weeks ago.”  
He was wearing a floral shirt in pastel shades today, and blue jeans. His reddish, dark-blond hair was tied up in a braided bun, a few daises woven into the elaborate braids. Up close, Courfeyrac noted that the boy was shorter than him, and had a light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He was positively adorable.  
“I live in an apartment down by the river,” Courfeyrac said. “I walk past here all the time because there's a café I go to often.”  
“I know. I mean, I know you walk past here. I've seen you,” came the reply, accompanied with a grin and a light blush. “Watching me.”  
Courfeyrac ran a hand through his hair nervously. Great, he did think he was a stalker. At least he found it amusing rather than running away in terror. That was something, right?  
“I, uh... I wanted to say hi, but I didn't really have the chance,” he said. It was a feeble explanation, but it would have to do.  
The boy giggled slightly, and Courfeyrac felt his heart jump.  
“It's okay. I would have done the same.” He offered Courfeyrac his hand. “I'm Jean Prouvaire, but you can call me Jehan.”  
“Courfeyrac. It's nice to meet you, Jehan.” He shook his hand, noticing how warm it was, as though Jehan – and what a lovely name it was, and perfect for him – truly was a tiny star, burning away.  
“It's nice to meet you too. Were you going somewhere?”  
“I'm just going to meet a friend. At that café I mentioned.”  
“Oh.” Jehan paused for a moment, and then smiled brightly. “Have fun, then. Maybe I can go there with you some day and we can talk?”  
“Talk? Yes, we can talk! That sounds great. Are you free on Friday afternoon?”  
Jehan blinked, clearly not expecting Courfeyrac to actually arrange a date, or whatever this was. “Yes. I'm basically free every day, I don't have a summer job yet. Um, I'll probably be in the city anyway on Friday, so, I'll meet you there at about 1:30?”  
Courfeyrac nodded. “Okay. Cool. I'll see you then!”  
Jehan smiled. “See you then.”

*

“What should I wear, Cosette? You know these things, you're a girl.”  
Cosette raised an eyebrow. “Sexist. I don't know these things because I'm a girl; I know them because I'm awesome.”  
“Okay, you're right, you're the most fantastic person ever, now can you please help me?”  
It was Thursday night, and Courfeyrac's bedroom was a mess of clothes. He'd always cared about how he presented himself, and he wanted to present himself to Jehan in the best way he possibly could. Cosette was Marius' girlfriend, and had quickly become a good friend to all of the Amis when Marius started spending time with them again after returning from staying with his grandparents in the countryside for a month.  
“I'm here, aren't I?” She began picking up items of clothing and throwing them onto Courfeyrac's bed. “Why do you have so many bow ties?”  
“I like bow ties. Do you think he won't like bow ties?”  
She turned to him. “You told me he wears floral shirts and bright green fuzzy sweaters, Courf, I doubt he really cares what you wear. You should wear what you think is most you, because you want him to like you, not some fake polished version of you. After all, he dresses the way he is and you like that, don't you? I'll bet he doesn't try to impress you with his clothes, because he doesn't need to try.”  
Courfeyrac thought about this for a moment, and decided she was right. “That's true. But I do want to look attractive to him.”  
Cosette smiled and threw a bow tie at him. “You always look hot, Courf, and you know it.”  
He thought he did, but after seeing Jehan and how he was so much more attractive than anyone and anything else, he wasn't so sure any more.

*

Jehan was already there when Courfeyrac arrived.  
He was sitting at a table in the corner, his pretty hands clutching a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream even though it was summer, his hair in a short braid tied with a purple ribbon. There was a notebook on the table, sitting open with a pen resting between the pages, but when he looked up and saw Courfeyrac he casually closed it and smiled at him. Courfeyrac walked over, noticing that Enjolras was working today; the golden-haired student revolutionary nodded at him but said nothing. Courfeyrac hadn't expected him to. A quick scan of the room showed that nobody else he knew was around, which was a relief; not everyone would leave him alone like that.  
“Hi!” He smiled and sat down opposite Jehan.  
“Hello,” came the soft reply.  
Courfeyrac had decided in the end to wear a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black bow tie, and dark jeans. He caught Jehan looking at him with a sparkle in his eyes that made a strange feeling jump into his tummy, and he got to his feet again.  
“I'm gonna get a drink, do you want another?”  
Jehan looked down at his still half-full mug. “Oh, it's fi-”  
“I'll get you one anyway.” Courfeyrac rushed over to where Enjolras was organizing a stack of mugs.  
“Hey, can I have my usual and another one of what he got?” He asked casually, gesturing in the direction of Jehan, who was currently putting the notebook away in his floral-patterned satchel with a little smile on his face. Enjolras began making the drinks, and Courfeyrac watched Jehan sip his hot chocolate and wipe some cream from his top lip. Christ, he was adorable.  
“Courfeyrac. Your drinks.”  
Courfeyrac looked back at Enjolras and realised he was standing there frowning at him, holding the drinks in his hands. Courfeyrac winked and took them before going back over to Jehan and putting them down on the table.  
“Thank you.”  
“So, what were you writing in that notebook?”  
Jehan blushed. He did that a lot. “Just some poetry. Before you ask if you can see, no, you can't.”  
His tone was light-hearted, and Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow.  
“Writing about me?”  
The poet's blush deepened, and he giggled. “I'm not the one who watches you on your balcony.”  
“Ah, that's just because I don't have a balcony. If I did, you would. Don't deny it.”  
Jehan laughed, and Courfeyrac joined in. It was going to be fine. They were able to talk without awkwardness, and talk they did. Courfeyrac told Jehan all about school and how he lived alone because he refused to leave when his parents moved, needing to stay with his best friends. Jehan seemed to like that, and told Courfeyrac about his parents who he lived with but they were both workaholics and were barely home, that they had moved here to be closer to the city, and Jehan missed the flower fields and forests of the countryside where he used to live. Then Courfeyrac told Jehan all about his friends, about Enjolras and Combeferre and Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet, Feuilly and Bahorel, Eponine and Gavroche, Marius and Cosette. Jehan listened intently to his every word, smiling and nodding and occasionally asking questions, and Courfeyrac could not remember the last time he had felt so comfortable talking to somebody new. His friendship group was so tight-knit that the thought of welcoming somebody new into his life past meaningless flirting and kissing people at parties didn't even cross his mind, until this little flower came along.  
Before Courfeyrac knew it, he'd had three cups of coffee and hours had flown by, hours spent learning about the balcony boy and letting him learn about his admirer.  
Finally, Jehan broke the spell.  
“I have to go,” he said, with a reluctant tone, “I have my flute lesson.”  
“You play the flute, too?” Courfeyrac's voice was full of wonder, and Jehan laughed.  
“Yes. What about you? Do you like music?”  
Courfeyrac nodded. “I play a little guitar and sing sometimes.”  
“Really? I'd like to hear you sometime.” Jehan took his bag and stood up.  
“Oh, you probably wouldn't really,” Courfeyrac protested, “I'm not that good.”  
“I'll decide that for myself.” He grinned. “So...”  
Courfeyrac stood up. “Sunday at 11am is when we all meet here. You're welcome to come along, if you like.”  
Jehan looked a little surprised, but nodded. “Maybe I will. I really have to go now, but thank you for this. I had a really nice time.”  
Courfeyrac was smiling so hard it hurt, and he nodded and let Jehan go, waving out of the window as he walked away. He then collapsed into his chair with a deep,satisfied sigh. Enjolras came over.  
“I hope you're going to pay for those drinks.”

*

“Oh God, no, Courfeyrac, not you too,” groaned Enjolras. Courfeyrac looked up and blinked at him.  
“Hmm?”  
“First Marius, now you. I need you to be here right now, Courfeyrac! We have important things to discuss!”  
It was Sunday, and Courfeyrac was sitting at the usual table in the café, Enjolras and Combeferre on either side of him. He felt a twinge of guilt as Enjolras' words registered.  
“Sorry, Enjolras. I'm here, I promise.”  
“Even when your friend gets here?”  
Courfeyrac nodded. “Even then, I swear. What are we discussing?”  
Enjolras began to start his speech again from the beginning. He was talking about equal rights and anti-prejudice in local schools, and Courfeyrac found himself listening intently, nodding, helping make drafts of posters and flyers that they intended to put up around the area. Joly and Bossuet showed up first and joined them, and then Bahorel swooped in and bought the coffee that he seemed to live on along with his cigarettes. Thirty minutes passed as each member of the group entered and joined in the discussion. Jehan was one of the last to arrive, followed only by a yawning Grantaire, and he seemed flustered, his cheeks pink and his breath short as though he had been running. Everyone stopped for a moment when they saw him pull up a chair beside Courfeyrac, and Bahorel nudged Feuilly and grinned, but they didn't make a big deal over it.  
“Are you okay?” He asked, after finishing a sentence he was writing on a draft of a poster and pushing it at Combeferre. Jehan nodded, fixing his hair, which was loose today and a little frizzy from the wind.  
“I'm sorry I'm late.”  
“Don't worry about it. Someone always is.”  
Jehan smiled, and then turned his attention to Enjolras and Combeferre, who were in the middle of a debate. As casually as he could, Courfeyrac introduced everyone to Jehan, and he to them, glad when they all seemed to welcome him without question. Everyone liked Jehan. He turned out to be very good at speaking to people, and he suggested a rewording of the writing on the poster that was so good, even Enjolras seemed impressed. When the work for the day was done and the conversation switched to more general world issues, and Joly talked about the terrible state of hospitals in third-world countries, Jehan appeared to get quite emotional, his eyes glassy as though he was about to cry. When Courfeyrac noticed this and asked what was wrong, he simply said that he hated people suffering, and wished he could help them all. By the time the last of the drinks were gone and Combeferre was stuffing his stack of papers away, it was clear that everybody wanted Jehan to stay, to become a member of the group; it had been one of the most productive and interesting meetings they had ever had.  
“Are you interested?” Courfeyrac asked him as they left the café together. “You would be a wonderful addition to the group.”  
“Yes, I think I am. You're such good people, and if I could help make a difference, then I'd love to.”

*

And he did. Jehan was like a ray of sunshine, and since he joined Les Amis, everyone seemed a lot more positive, and they seemed to have twice as much creativity with their ideas than usual. Days passed, and then weeks, with Jehan as one of them, and it was as though they had truly come alive. Something about him had awoken the loving, kind side of the boys which had always been there but not so prevalent, often being obscured by arguments and shouting wars. With this new-found optimism and sense of hope came a stronger desire to fight for others and bring that hope to them. Courfeyrac and Jehan began to meet up every morning, Courfeyrac waiting outside of Jehan's house and then walking to the café with him, and then they would walk back together after the meetings. Courfeyrac was a little afraid that his infatuation would dwindle, that as he became closer to Jehan, he would realise that he was not so perfect, that he had traits that he disliked, but his feelings just grew stronger until he found himself waiting to be with him every second that they were apart, finding as many excuses to see him on non-meeting days as he could. Summer reached its hottest point, the sun always high and bright in the sky, and everything was good. But there was a problem. Everyone else loved Jehan, too, though of course none of them had the same kind of feelings as Courfeyrac; and Jehan was as friendly with them as he had always been with Courfeyrac. He blushed for them, giggled at things they said, talked about poetry with them, and the closer he came with the group, the further Courfeyrac's heart began to sink, for he showed absolutely no signs of seeing Courfeyrac any differently to the rest of them. Perhaps he had simply deluded himself into thinking there was an attraction there at the beginning because his own for Jehan was so strong. His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when one surprisingly rainy afternoon, Jehan referred to them all as the best friends he had ever had, and didn't even look at Courfeyrac when he said it to convey anything else. A few weeks after this realisation, Courfeyrac found that he couldn't flirt with Jehan like he knew he should; this was deeper than that, so much deeper, and if Jehan truly didn't have those feelings for him, he could react badly to it, and he could lose him forever. He needed Jehan in his life, even if it was just as a friend, so he began to go out some nights, slipping back into a pattern of flirting and going on casual dates in between seeing Jehan and the other Amis. One time, Jehan walked into the café to see Courfeyrac kissing a girl goodbye, and he said nothing about it. Nothing at all. And Courfeyrac felt nothing for that girl, or any of the rest of them.

*

One evening, after a tiring week of Enjolras pushing them all to work extra hard which ended with a small and reasonably uneventful protest, Bahorel showed up at Courfeyrac's door. There was a minibus parked outside.  
“Courf, we're going to the beach. Come on.” He took a casual drag on his cigarette and leaned against the wall.  
Courfeyrac looked closely at the tiny bus and saw Feuilly grinning at him, and someone else sitting beside him.  
“Who's going?” He asked.  
“Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet and Jehan. And you and me.”  
Jehan. As soon as he heard the name, Courfeyrac grabbed his wallet and keys and stepped out the door. Bahorel grinned, pressed the end of the cigarette against the wall and let it fall to the ground before turning and following Courfeyrac to the bus.  
The hour long drive was surprisingly relaxing. The windows were open, and Courfeyrac watched Jehan's hair dance in the wind, a smile on both of their faces. The radio was playing, and a song came on that Courfeyrac hadn't heard before; it was light and pleasant and he leaned back in his seat and let the cool breeze blow on his face.

So this is summer  
And the Calor gas is running low  
But I don't mind  
I'm doing things and doing them with you 

At one point, he felt a soft brush of warm skin against the skin of his hand, and he opened his eyes to stare at Jehan, who was sitting so close to him that his arm had bumped his. Jehan was gazing at him, not saying a word, and his blue eyes were calm and steady, and a faint blush had begun to paint his cheeks. 

And if you're smart you'll put that book back down  
You'll drag me to the floor,  
drag me down for more 

The spell that Jehan so often cast on Courfeyrac was broken when the bus stopped and Feuilly, who had been driving, turned and grinned at them.  
“We're here!”  
They all piled out of the car, and then Jehan was no longer by Courfeyrac's side; he saw him pulling a bag out of the bus as Joly and Bossuet came to walk with Courfeyrac, talking and laughing. The sun beat down hot and hard, and the sky stretched on in a never-ending, clear blue. They walked toward the sand of the beach, and Courfeyrac's smile widened as he saw the many groups of young, scantily clad people, splashing each other in the sea and eating picnic food and sunbathing with portable radios blasting music. They walked along the sand, removing their shoes as they went, and suddenly Jehan dropped the bag and started running toward the sea, laughing like a child, his reddish blond hair streaming behind him in the breeze. He stepped into the water, jumping a little as he felt the cold on his bare feet. Bahorel nudged Courfeyrac.  
“Go and join him.”  
And so he did. He ran after Jehan, who grabbed his hand when he saw him, and they started to run along the edge of the water together, giddy as lovers, and Courfeyrec forgot all of the other people, the girls and boys who he would usually be checking out and flirting with. He forgot about their friends, who had went to sit on the sand and opened bottles of wine. Nothing mattered but Jehan. When the poet tired, he flopped onto the sand and began writing in it with his finger, lines of poetry that reminded Courfeyrac of everything beautiful about summer and about their writer. Courfeyrac joined in, writing song lyrics instead of poetry, and then he drew a funny face and signed it 'Courf and Jehan were here'. Jehan saw and giggled, and he drew a heart beside his name. Then they stopped and lay back on the dry sand nearby, gazing up at the thin, wispy clouds in the sky.  
“Thank you for everything, Courfeyrac.”  
“It wasn't my idea to come here.”  
“I don't just mean this. I mean everything. I wouldn't know all these people if it wasn't for you.” He turned his head to look at Courfeyrac. “You've given me a real home here, and I'm happy. You've given me all these friends, and something to fight for.”  
Courfeyrac looked back at him. “I guess watching pretty boys on their balconies isn't so creepy after all then.”  
Jehan laughed. “I never thought it was creepy. After all, you were just curious about seeing a new person. And now we're friends. Good friends. Right?”  
Courfeyrac said nothing for a moment. Good friends. That was right. That was what Jehan felt, the connection between them, it was one of good friends. He was deluding himself into thinking it was something romantic.  
“Sure. We're good friends. Of course.”  
Jehan's smile then was so sweet and content that Courfeyrac couldn't bring himself to feel bad. After all, Jehan saw him as a good friend, and he had made Jehan happy. That was more than Courfeyrac had ever hoped for when he had first met him.  
Suddenly, they were cast in shadow. Courfeyrac looked up and saw Bahorel standing over them, a bottle of wine in hand.  
“It's a shame Grantaire didn't come, he would have appreciated the wine. Are you two going to join us at all today or do I have to make you?”  
Courfeyrac and Jehan got to their feet and walked over to the others with Bahorel, where they would talk and laugh and sing songs and drink wine for the rest of the afternoon.

*

“You have to tell him!”  
“I can't. He doesn't feel that way about me, we're just good friends, that's what he said.”  
“Courf! This isn't like you!”  
Two weeks had passed since the day at the beach, and everything had fallen back into its regular pattern. Things were normal, except for the fact that Courfeyrac was slowly going crazy with love and longing. So crazy that he had finally told Marius about his predicament, since he was the only one of the group who had fallen so madly in love, at least that he knew of. Well, except for Grantaire, but somehow he didn't think he would be the best choice to talk to about it.  
“It's not like me because usually I don't know the person this well. It's been months, Marius, and you know how romantic he is, if he wanted something more from me he would have done something about it by now.”  
“Or maybe he's waiting for you to do something!” Marius was practically ripping his hair out in frustration at his friend. “Courfeyrac, please. If you want him, you have to let him know. I can't imagine if I had never told Cosette how I felt about her!”  
“But Cosette obviously felt the same way about you, and you got together straight away,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “Jehan isn't in love with me like she was with you.”  
“How can you be so sure?” Marius leaned across the table to grab Courfeyrac's hand. “Courfeyrac. You have to do this. If you never say anything, he's going to move on and stop seeing you as more than a friend. You're putting yourself in a situation that you can get out of so easily!”  
Courfeyrac sighed. “All right. Fine. I'll tell him. Somehow.”  
“Courfeyrac. Look at me.”  
Courfeyrac obliged, looking into Marius' bright eyes.  
“How badly do you want Jehan?”  
“So badly. I think about him all the time, and when I'm around him, I feel... complete, like I need him there-”  
“Take that feeling and hold on to it, until your heart is bursting with love. Go over to his house and tell him how you feel.”  
Courfeyrac looked at Marius for a moment, and then jumped to his feet, dropping his friend's hand. “You're right. You have to be right. I'll … I'll just have to tell him, and if he doesn't feel the same, it's not like the friendship will necessary be ruined. There'll be a way to fix it. Everything will be fine, whatever happens.”  
“There's the Courf I know!” Marius seemed delighted, and Courfeyrac was glad that, if all should fail, he had at least been able to make someone smile.

*

Summer was beginning to fade. The evenings had grown colder and a little darker, but there was still warmth in the air and the sun still shone high in the sky as Courfeyrac made his way down the street to the ivy-painted house at the end. He had rushed out of Marius' house, only to find himself suddenly nervous, so he had visited the Café Musain for a quick coffee to calm himself down before making his grand gesture. Combeferre was working, having recently got a job there, and he managed to reassure Courfeyrac that it was definitely a good idea, so now, he was standing outside Jehan's house, gazing up at the balcony covered with flower pots. He went to knock on the door, but then he saw a sudden flash of colour in the window beyond the balcony, and he knew that his poet, his love, was in his room, and he did the first thing that he thought of doing.  
“Jehan! Jean Prouvaire! Come onto your balcony!”  
For a moment, he thought that Jehan had not heard, had left his room to move elsewhere in the house, but then the doors opened, and the boy stepped out onto the balcony, his eyes round. He was wearing a pale blue sweater that was so big it fell to his knees and spilled over his small hands so that only the tips of his fingers were visible, and his hair was pinned back with a single flower pushed through a clip. He looked more beautiful than ever before.  
“Courf? What are you doing? I'll come and let you in-”  
“No, I can do this from here. I need to do this now or I'll change my mind and look like an idiot in front of you again.”  
Jehan blinked and moved to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing as he stared at Courfeyrac.  
“I came here because if I don't tell you now, it's going to be too late, if it isn't already. I know you see me as a good friend, and you love all of us, and we all love you, but what I want to say is that... I don't just love you like they do. I'm in love with you, Jean Prouvaire, and I want to make you happy. I can't write poetry, and I'm not going to sing a song or do anything theatrical. It's just me, and … and I want that to be good enough for you. I want to be with you.”  
By the time he finished his speech, Jehan's face had turned scarlet, and he had one hand over his mouth in shock or embarrassment. Courfeyrac suddenly heard his own words, and realised how ineloquent, how insufficient for such a beautiful person they were. No wonder he was embarrassed. Why would someone like Jehan want someone like Courfeyrac? They were just too different.  
Finally, Jehan spoke.  
“Courfeyrac... just stay there, I'm coming down.” And then he ran back into his room and disappeared from view. Courfeyrac stood there, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. He had ruined everything. What had he been thinking, listening to lovesick Marius' advice?  
But then the front door of the house was open, and Jehan was running toward him, and then he was suddenly in Courfeyrac's arms, hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe, and he felt as though he could quite happily have the life sucked out of him and die right now, with this boy holding him. He pulled away after a few seconds and gazed at Courfeyrac.  
“You really love me?”  
“Yes. I really, really do. You're all I could ever want, Jehan.”  
Jehan was blushing again, and then he was smiling, a smile that lit up the whole world and seemed to turn the very sky a brighter blue.  
“I'm in love with you, too, Courfeyrac.”  
And Courfeyrac's heart stopped. Jehan's words were still playing over and over in his head, and he was wondering if he had misheard, when he felt soft, sweet lips press against his and he realised that, oh, it was true, and Jehan was kissing him, and he was wrapping his arms around his poet and kissing him back, and he had never been so happy in his entire life.

So this is summer. And it is beautiful.


End file.
